Coming Undone
by Rowan Watkins
Summary: Voldemort has gained even more power in the wizarding world, Death Eaters run rampant and people are dying left and right. The only choices are light or dark, good or evil. By now people know where their loyalties lie. The fight has begun.
1. Spinner's End

Two dark figures made their way through the thick grass, weaving on and off the tiny dirt path, bumping into the other, laughing. They continued on their way, the thick trees overhead offering only glimpses of the brilliantly starry sky and the occasional patch of bright moonlight. One bottle clinked as it made contact with the other and with a loud, warbly "Ay!" the two figures downed the saccharine liquid inside them, smacking their lips before lifting the bottle to their mouths for another hearty swig.

"Ah, that's good stuff right there." The taller of the figures said, running his arm over his lips.

"The very best." The stockier one tittered.

The two men stumbled a little father along the path, then collapsed into a moon bathed meadow, nursing their bottles of rum as they lay on their backs in the tall grass, which swayed omniously in the light breeze. The taller of the two stretched out leisurely in the field, folding his arms behind his head and handing his bottle to the stocky man, who took it eagerly in his grubby hands,

"You can take care 'o that mate," He grumbled, closing his eyes, "I've drunk enough to drown a fish, I 'ave." The stocky man gave an appreciative laugh.

"Ah, maybe so, but ya deserve it." He said, examining the two bottles. After a moment of weighing the amount of rum contained in each one he chose the fuller bottle, uncorked it, then poured it into his mouth.

"There ya go. Now we're even." He yawned, handing the bottle to the taller figure and leaning back in the tall grass. He closed his eyes and in seconds was snoring, his his chin resting on his flabby neck. The taller figure took the bottles and tossed them over his head into the field, then ambled down the hill towards a small thicket. One hand was on the belt of his trousers when he heard it. A heavy grunt and a shuffling of branches, coming straight from the tall trees. Worried there might be wolves about the man quickly relieved himself, then ran back up the hill to wake his friend.

"Norman," He whispered, coming up from behind the stocky man. "We gotta get out of here, I think there's somethin' big in that thicket down there…" When Norma did nothing but remain silent, the tall man seized him by his broad shoulders and began to shake him roughly. "Norman!" He cried, "Come on, even you don't sleep this sound, c'mon now…stop playin' and wake up already!" He shook harder. "I'm warnin'—" But the tall man didn't finish his sentence. Norman's head lolled unpleasantly to the side, and his eyes were wide open and glinting in the moonlight. The tall man quickly let go of his friend, his bruised hands slippery with sweat. He leaned back on his haunches, closing his eyes, feeling the cool safety of darkness. There was no way Norman could have snuffed it in the time it took for him to amble down the hill and run back up it. He must be playing….but the tall man shook his head. Even Norman wasn't that good an actor, and people playing dead don't usually have a trickle of blood running from the corner of their mouth, deathly cold skin and wide open eyes. The tall man leaned in closer to Norman, inhaling the stale smell of liquor, sweat and cloth, and lay his ear over his chest. There was no steady ba-bump of a heart beating under Norman's ribs. Beginning to panic the tall man seized Norman's wrist and began to franitcally search for a pulse, but…nothing. Confused, the tall man knelt beside Norman, studying him. "Why, looks like the man's been scared to death!" he thought, peeling back one of Norman's eyelids. His fingers trailed down one of Norman's arms and he shuddered. Norman's skin was so cold it gave him the chills just touching it. By now, the tall man was extremely worried. It couldn't have been the rum that killed Norman. Even the strongest liquor in the world couldn't do this to a body, especially an old drunk like Norman. The man had been drinking ever since he could walk. Though saddened by the evident (and mysterious) passing of his friend, the tall man didn't want to stick around and have to explain such a strange occurance. What would people say, when they wandered up here tomorrow morning, to find him towering over an ice cold body? Not that many folks wandered up this way anyhow, but the tall man wasn't going to risk it. No, he was going to run…run to the nearest place, get a cuppa and sleep it off, decide what to do in the morning. He began to survey the valley below the hill, squinting around until a small light far off in the distance caught his eye. Another light joined the first, then another….soon the tall man could see an outline of a little house, as well as a few streetlamps, and was surprised he hadn't noticed it before. Taking one last look at Norman he hurried down the hill, walking rather faster than he normally would have done and sprinting past the thicket where he had heard the grunt. As he neared the house he wondered what time it was. He certianly didn't want to be inconvenient to anyone, and it sure did look late…for the life of him the tall man couldn't remember when he and Norman had headed towards home from that bar. Nine o'clock? Maybe ten? Ah, it could have been twelve thirty for all he knew. He'd been drinking half as much as Norman had. He vaguely remembered a forceful voice and shove, a pretty woman screaming about "filthy layabouts" and then hitting the street. He rubbed his back. Maybe that's why it was paining him so.

The windows of the little house now shone brightly, although the brightness was muffled by heavy curtains that blocked all view into the place. A small river ran the side of the house and as the man turned from the dirty little path towards the house his workboots clicked loudly on a cobblestone road. A tall iron street lamp illuminated a crooked sign and the tall man paused to take a look, lifting his cap off his head and wiping his brow with it.

"Spinner's End, huh." He said. He turned away from the sign and walked towards the front yard of the house, which was overgrown with weeds and littered with all kinds of trash. The tall man kicked a magazine out of his way, wrinking the face of a beaming movie star, and a tin can, disguised in the dark, caused him to trip and fall, landing splay legged in the grass. The tall man swore loudly and stood to dust himself off. Looking up towards the house he thought he saw one of the thick curtains on the first floor move, but then again, the rum was probably playing tricks on him. The tall man swayed up the broken cobblestone walk to the little house, then paused. Surely the curtain had swayed again, and surely someone had been looking out this time…He stratched his head, squinting at the little window. Even with the dim light coming from the window, he couldn't tell whether it was open or not.

"Prob'ly just the breeze." The tall man muttered to himself. He was almost at the large wooden door when something rustled behind him. The tall man turned to see a flash of green light, then crumpled to the cobblestone walkway, his long legs twisted together, his blue eyes staring up into the starry sky. A pair of heels clicked down the walkway and a woman with dark, curly hair pocketed her wand and nudged the tall man with the edge of her boot, her lip curling in disgust as she realized what she had killed.

"Filthy Muggle." She hissed, giving the tall man's body a kick. "Now what am I supposed to do with you?" She lifted up her robes and stepped over the man, tossing her curls out of her face in a ruffled way as she knocked on the wooden door. There was silence, then the door swung open to reveal a hook nosed man, his face hidden behind a thick curtian of jet black hair.

"Ah, Bellatrix. What do I owe the pleasure?" The man sneered, eyeing his visitor apprehensively. The woman named Bellatrix scowled.

"I've got strict orders from our Lord but we mustn't speak of them here…" She nudged the tall man with her boot again. "There's too many Mudbloods lurking about, I've already got one here." She looked up into the face of the man, who was staring at the body with his cold black eyes, his upper lip curling the same way Bellatrix's had.

"What should we do with the body?" The woman asked, her lip curling again as she caught the smell of liquor and piss from the tall man's body. "Normally I would just leave it but it won't do to have a dead Muggle on your doorstep any time of day…and especially not now, when our Lord may be making an appearance." The man nodded, his beady eyes still fixed on the tall man's body.

"You are absolutely right, Bellatrix." He said smoothly. "Though he is foul, I advise you against slaughtering Muggles on my doorstep in the future. Not only does it cause great inconvenience to me, but it also does not add much to the landscaping…" He surveyed his lawn bitterly. A newspaper blew across the tall grass and tumbled down the cobbelstone street out of sight. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes.

"Where then, Severus, do you propose I put him, if not on your lawn?" Severus shrugged, turning away from her and heading down the narrow hallway through which he came.

"Just dump him in the lake." He drawled. "It's been done before."

*******************************************************


	2. New Flat

Rowan Watkins was cleaning.

It wasn't something she usually did (a fact that was evident by the state of her home and workspace) but it was something that needed to be done. Saturday evening found Rowan sitting cross legged in the middle of her drawing room, surrounded by mountains of clutter. There was a stack of exploding snap cards that reached the ceiling (a tower Rowan was terrified to touch) a box of crusty Doxy wings (though thankfully no actual Doxies) a cloudy crystal ball filled with ominous, swirling grey mist, a couple standard size pewter cauldrons, a battered box of Filibusters Finest and a few broken eagle feather quills. Rowan pulled her old school trunk towards the center of the room and tentatively reached inside. She had donned a pair of thick dragon hide gloves for the occasion but was still hesitant about their effectiveness after a particularly painful jab from the raw end a Sneakoscope.

Rowan rummaged around before her hand closed on a crumpled piece of parchment. Smoothing it out over her coffee table Rowan smiled as a tiny drawing of a castle appeared and Lily's tidy scrawl and miniscule diagrams, all done in fancy red ink, filled the space around it, an elaborate prank. Rowan paused, fondly remembering the moment, then gingerly folded the paper in half and slipped it into the pocket of her robes and out of sight.

"Find anything interesting?"

It was Lily, and she was making her way through the maze of furniture and cleaning supplies, a tray of sandwiches held high over her head. Rowan yawned and upset a bottle of Mrs. Skower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover with her hand.

"Still no room to swing a Kneazle and I've been at it since five this morning." Rowan grumbled, grabbing her wand from the couch cushions and beginning to siphon away the mess. Lily set the tray delicately on the coffee table then sat down on the patchy purple sofa, which emitted a thick puff of dust. Rowan smiled apologetically.

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow around the dingy flat and illuminating all the dust covered surfaces. Lily poured herself some tea, then leaned back on the creaky sofa, propping her feet up on the coffee table.

"I'm sorry this place is such a mess." Rowan said bashfully, taking a knife from the tray and proceeding to drown her sandwich in mustard. "When the Prophet advertised a fully furnished place for rent I didn't think it would be such a dump." Lily drummed her fingers on the edge of the couch idly, flipping through a battered copy of Witch Weekly.

"Yea, well…that'll teach you to rent flats from the Sickle Saver section of a newspaper." She turned the magazine back to it's cover and raised a brow, passing it to Rowan. "Ah, just as I thought. Look at that date--May 10th, 1964. That magazine's been here since the beginning of time. Why'd the lady move out again?" Rowan tossed the magazine over her shoulder.

"Um…she didn't." She said, taking a handful of crisps from the tray. "She died." Lily spat out some of her tea.

"How long has this flat been on the market? Goodness Rowan, I bet this place is cursed!" And she began to look all around the ceiling, as if expecting a ghost to materialize any moment. Rowan rolled her eyes.

"Well, it's definitely not my first choice, but it's a place of my own and I don't have to live with my batty mum anymore." Lily lifted one foot off the table and surveyed her socks, which now were a dull grey.

"These were white before I walked all over your floors." She mused. Rowan made a face.

"Gross."

"Almost as gross as that sandwich." Lily said, shooting a disgusted look at Rowan as she sunk her teeth into her creation, which was now dripping mustard out the sides. Rowan shrugged.

"Tastes damn good though." She said, licking her fingers. "Damn good." Lily looked repulsed.


	3. Graveyard

The moon was high in the sky and the stars were shining bright when Rowan left her flat. A thin layer of glittering frost lay over the iron banister and the tips of the neighbor's wilted begonias, and Rowan's breath shone pearly white against the black sky. Stepping down onto the cobblestone walk Rowan adjusted her beret and smiled fondly at the figure slumped against her mailbox.

"Decoded to show up after all." She said, tossing a plaid scarf around her shoulders. Sirius Black looked up from his boots and gave Rowan a warm smile, surveying her from head to toe in her long red coat.

"You look nice for just going out to a graveyard." He said smoothly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Rowan grinned.

It wasn't a long walk to the cemetery, located atop Joseph's Hill not too far from Rowan's Upper Flagley flat, and in no time at all Rowan and Sirius found themselves standing outside the tall, wrought iron kissing gate. A small patch of clouds momentarily cast them in darkness, and tiny, pin prick snowflakes began to fall over the pearly white headstones. Rowan looked up at Sirius, who was wearing an uncharacteristically sullen expression.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" She asked, her hands wrapped around the cool iron of the gate. Sirius didn't answer for a moment. Instead, his onyx eyes stared blankly ahead, flickering across the rows of little headstones, many of which had creepers curling up their edges. He stood like this for quite some time before turning to Rowan and giving her a rather twisted smile that did not meet his eyes, which remained cold and dark, devoid of their usual sparkle. Rowan took the hand he offered her and squeezed it, but Sirius did not return the gesture. Instead he lead Rowan through the tangle of creepers and headstones until he finally knelt beside one, plucking his scarf from under his knees and throwing it over his shoulders. He couldn't kneel well, being so tall and the space between headstones so small, and it was lucky Rowan was so tiny, for there was barely any space to squeeze in next to Sirius.

"Could I see your wand?" He asked suddenly, not looking away from the headstone. Rowan nodded and pulled it from her robes. Sirius took it and pointed it at the headstone.

"Lumos." He whispered.

Immediately the name etched into the headstone was swathed in a pale, candle like glow that flickered and swayed ominously in the dark night.

"Regulus Arcturus Black." Sirius murmured, reaching out to trace the engraved lettering. "Born October 12 1961. Died June 10 1979." His voice broke as he reached the quotation, and he looked away from Rowan, his face hidden in darkness. After a moment to gather himself, Sirius turned back to the headstone and read, in a rather soft voice, ""True bravery is shown by performing without witness what one might be capable of doing before all the world" Rowan squeezed Sirius's hand again, smiling sadly at him.

"He was a good man, Reggie." She said softly. Sirius let out his usual bark like laugh, though his features were still arranged in the same pained expression.

"Shocked us all in the end…" He said, patting the headstone. "Even if we don't know what happened."

"Isn't he actually buried at the Black manor?" Rowan asked, taking her wand back from Black. Sirius scowled, standing up and sliding his hands back into his pockets moodily.

"He was supposed to be." He spat, kicking at an overgrown bush. "He was the golden child…but you think my parents would give him a resting place at our home, after finding out he betrayed their Master? Oh no." He laughed. "After that he had as much a chance as I do of being buried with the rest of the "noble Blacks"." His eyes flashed dangerously and he swung the kissing gate closed so violently it rattled and shook on it's hinges. Rowan winced as Sirius turned to face her, but his eyes softened at the sight of her and he laughed, the old sparkle coming back into his eyes.

"It's fine Rowan. Don't worry about it…" He took her hand gently in his. "I'm glad you came with me. Thank you." Rowan adjusted her hat and smiled up at him.

"You're welcome Black." She said, leading him out into the street. "Not a problem."

********************************************************************


	4. Mission

Rowan entered her office the next morning to find a folded copy of the Daily Prophet sitting on her desk. Hanging her cloak up on the biting coat rack Rowan quickly surveyed the headline that had been highlighted in flashing paint, then spit her coffee all over it.

**Caradoc Dearborn Vanishes-Death Eater Activity Suspected**

"WHAT?!"

"Thought that might be your reaction." Rowan looked up from the smiling, handsome face of Caradoc to see Gideon Prewett leaning against her doorframe, hands crossed over his broad chest.

"Did you bring this to me?" Rowan asked, throwing the paper down onto her chair and beginning to siphon the coffee off her desk. Gideon smiled and strolled into the room, tossing his long red hair out of his eyes.

"Might be easier if you just Scourgify!" With a little flick of his wand the mess was wiped clean, and Rowan's desk was left so shiny she could see herself, tired and frazzled looking, in the dark wood.

"When did this come out?" She demanded, sinking into her chair and massaging her temples. Gideon opened the paper and began to leisurely flip through it, pausing at an article on the Kenmare Kestrels latest win.

"Just this morning. We're the first to know." He said. Rowan let out a long, low sigh and closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair.

"Please tell me we're not assigned to investigate. Please." Gideon just smiled and Rowan moaned, burying her face in her arms on her shiny desk. Gideon chuckled, patting her on the back.

"Hey, chin up Ro." He said cheerfully. "I doubt any Death Eater's actually caught Caradoc. The man's sharp as beetle eyes, lemme tell ya. There's nothing that could get past him." When Rowan did nothing but continue to lie on her desk, Gideon knelt beside her, brushing curls away from Rowan's ear so he could talk into it. "Listen," He said evenly, "the old fool's probably just gotten himself stuck someplace or extended his mission without notifying the Ministry. No worries." Rowan looked up at him.

"You even know that's not true. He's dead isn't he." Gideon sighed.

"Dead as a doornail, but we've still 'gotta down there."

Gideon leaned against the wall and pulled a long, fat cigar from the pocket of his robes and lit it with the end of his wand, blowing puffs of smoke into the air. The two sat in silence for awhile before Gideon strode across the room to retrieve his fedora from the coat rack, turning back to look at Rowan, who was now staring blankly at the headline.

"If youre interested," He said, dangling the cigar from his fingertips, "The boys and I are going out for a drink later tonight at the Three Broomsticks." He winked and a couple of red sparks fell from his cigar and onto the floor, singing the carpet. "My treat." He said, giving Rowan a crooked smile.

"When am I ever not interested in a little booze?" Rowan teased, looking up at Gideon through her lashes. She grabbed a quill and a spare piece of parchment from inside her desk and began scribbling a note. "Isn't Molly expecting you for meatballs though?" She asked, running her tongue along the envelope and tucking the note inside. Gideon laughed, pulling the cigar out of his mouth and sending three white spirals of smoke into the air.

"That's the third time she's been trying to get me to come 'round, y'know. Seems Molly thinks I spend too much time working and need a break…" He chuckled, kicking the edge of the coatrack with his boot. "She also thinks I need to stop this 'Order nonsense' and find me a decent woman." Rowan smirked, taking the note and handing it to Gideon.

"I'm sure you'll find one of those sooner or later, but in the meantime, it would be great if you could give this to Peter, he'll be expecting it." Gideon took the note, smirked, then held it up to the light, trying to read the contents of the letter.

"Hey!" Rowan cried, swatting his hand away, "It's private." Gideon rolled his eyes, but stuffed the letter roughly into his cloak pocket.

"Whatever you say Ro…hey, did I show you?" From the same pocket he pulled out a thick dragon skin wallet, it's emerald green scales glittering in the dim light, and fished around inside until finding a small piece of paper, which he handed to Rowan.

"Molly's got another one on her hands. This one's little Ronald. Looks a right handful doesn't he?" Rowan smiled at the picture of the little baby. He was chubby and ruddy faced, with a tuft of bright orange hair and a blue rattle, screaming for all he was worth until a hand appeared and presented him with a stuffed dragon that breathed tissue paper fire.

"He's cute." She said, handing the picture back to Gideon. "They ever find a new place yet?"

"Yea, finally." Gideon said. "A place near Ottery St. Catchpole, craziest house you'll ever lay eyes on. Crooked as a hag, probably smelly as one too…told Arthur to check for Ashwinder eggs this time after their old place burned down." He tossed what remained of his cigar into the bin by Rowan's desk, took his fedora from the coat rack, tilted it on his head, then turned to face Rowan again.

"Expect to see you there tonight." He said. He gave his cloak pocket a little pat. "And I'll be sure to deliver this to Peter as asked."

"I'll definitely be there." Rowan said, heading back to her desk. "Probably be the last time I have any fun for quite awhile."


End file.
